


Happy Lovers

by katiecole0516



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Aging, Contains Bad French, Domestic Fluff, Glasses, Hannibal Lecter is an Overdramatic Vainpot, Hannibal gets Glasses, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Suspicious Will Graham
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:14:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23714218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katiecole0516/pseuds/katiecole0516
Summary: Things between them lately wasn’t exactlybad, just...distant. Like Hannibal wasn’t really there, despite being physically present.Worse still, Will couldn’t shake the feeling that Hannibal washidingsomething.
Relationships: Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 24
Kudos: 260
Collections: Wendigo & Stag





	Happy Lovers

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this](https://baba-yaga-not-only.tumblr.com/post/190448207309/happy-madssaturday-mads-mikkelsen-by-kenneth) ridiculous Mads Mikkelsen photo set where he wears glasses.

* * *

Every relationship came with its own ups and downs.

Crescendos and diminuendos.

Peaks and troughs.

Things with Hannibal had been mostly - dare he say it - _good?_

It definitely wasn’t rock bottom, considering they had both made multiple attempts on each other’s lives before. It really couldn’t get any worse than that, so logically, the only way for them to go was up.

Or so he’d thought.

Things between them lately wasn’t exactly _bad_ , just...distant. Like Hannibal wasn’t really there, despite being physically present.

Worse still, Will couldn’t shake the feeling that Hannibal was _hiding_ something.

Will kept his eyes on his plate as Hannibal droned on about some antique lamp he’d ordered from a dealer he’d met at the market who owned a shop filled with eighteenth and nineteenth century antiques just thirty miles away up in _who the fuck cared_.

He didn’t think Hannibal was looking at him either.

“- sorted out the fragile wrapping, and it’s expected to arrive later today.”

 _It’s expected to arrive later today._ As though he was Hannibal’s fucking secretary.

“Okay,” Will said.

 _I thought interior decorating was something we did together,_ was what he actually wanted to say, but even in his head that sounded pathetically needy, so he held his tongue as he chewed on his pan-seared sirloin steak.

“I’d like for it to be placed on the end table in the study.”

“Sure.”

On second thought, maybe the only way for them to go was _down,_ because what else could match up to the gruesome thrill of serial killing and cannibalism?

* * *

Will _hated_ the lamp, and not just because Hannibal had picked it out without him.

The vivid sepia-green tones stuck out horribly from the rest of the room, the porcelain body looked like an ugly, misshapen vat, and the gold handles protruding from the sides looked like a pair of wrinkly, dislocated thumbs.

Will switched it on and was immediately irritated to find that it was infuriatingly bright, never mind that he had complained about Hannibal’s inclination for abysmally dim lighting around the house before _(it’s romantic, Will)_.

He had half a mind to take Hannibal’s most treasured heavy duty stainless steel meat mallet and smash the damn thing to pieces. He could blame it on the delivery guys.

But then he’d have their blood on his hands and their bodies to help take care of, and he wasn’t sure that was how he wanted to reignite the romance in his relationship. 

Will switched it off angrily and made sure to slam the door of the study on his way out.

* * *

However mundane things got, at least there would always be the food.

“This is great,” Will said, happily savoring the cream cheese and chive scramble with prosciutto.

“Thank you,” Hannibal replied, smiling warmly across the table at him.

In that moment, everything seemed right with them and the world. Who cared about a stupid lamp? As he ate, Will thought he could be content with gazing forever into Hannibal’s eyes like this, marveling at the rich shades of caramel-brown and getting lost in the way the golden flecks glinted -

A crunch from his mouth filled the room, loud enough to make both men freeze.

Maybe it was the chives, Will thought, after the initial shock from the sound wore off.

He brought another mouthful of creamy scrambled eggs to his mouth and chewed, carefully -

Another crunch sounded from between his teeth, making him freeze again under Hannibal’s sharp glare.

“I think there’s...eggshells...in the...” Will trailed off weakly.

Hannibal’s knuckles had turned stark white from the death grip he had on his knife and fork. He seemed to need a moment to collect himself.

“My apologies,” he said stiffly.

For the last few mouthfuls of scrambled eggs, Will gingerly used his tongue to roll and press the food against the roof of his mouth, and when he felt the sharp edge of another tiny fragment of eggshell, he gulped it down without a word.

* * *

At least things hadn’t fizzled out to the extent that they didn’t go on dates anymore.

It was mostly Hannibal who picked where they went, which meant a lot of their dates were spent at places like art galleries and the opera. Will didn’t really mind, if only because Hannibal would entertain him with amusing commentaries, often in a low whisper with lips close enough to his ear to make him forget all about the stuffy atmosphere.

Of course, they had dinner dates too, but because Hannibal had standards, they usually ended up visiting ridiculously expensive places where Will sometimes hadn’t the faintest idea of what was on his plate.

Again, Will didn’t mind as long as Hannibal was with him, because the man could describe food in a way that made him genuinely curious to try out new kinds of obscure and exotic dishes.

Tonight was another night of fine dining, and as Will scanned the small, fancy print on the menu, he thought he should really start trying to pick up French in earnest. There were maybe five and a half words that he recognized.

Hannibal was always kind enough to translate for him while they were together, so Will waited patiently for him to be done.

_“Bonsoir messieurs, avez-vous fait votre choix?”_

Will was about to wave the maitre d’ away when Hannibal closed his menu with a snap.

_“Qu'est-ce que vous recommandez?”_

Will blinked, as the maitre d’ recited a list of what he assumed were tonight’s recommendations for a three-course meal.

Hannibal nodded. _“Très bien.”_ Then with a gesture at Will, _“Il mangera la même chose que moi.”_

“Actually- Um.” Will held on to the menu as the maitre d’ made to collect it from him. _“Je prend...plutôt...”_ Will pointed at the third item listed on the main courses. _“Cervelles d'agneau sautées aux champignons...s'il vous plaît.”_

The maitre d’ gave a pleasant smile and nod before excusing herself, giving no indication that she might have been appalled at Will’s butchered pronunciation.

Will sipped his water quietly.

“Do you know what you just ordered, Will?”

“Of course I do,” Will said, because that sounded a lot less butthurt than, _I would if you had translated the menu like you always do, isn’t that our thing anymore?_

When the plate of brains came and were set down in front of him, Will let none of his mortification show on his face. No, he told Hannibal, he didn’t want to switch, thank you very much. Resolutely ignoring Hannibal’s knowing smirk, he picked up his fork and made sure to eat every single bit.

* * *

Falling into a routine could be comforting, Will decided.

Being able to stick to a routine implied that nothing terribly horrific had happened in their lives to make them break that routine, and so, it followed that routines were...not a bad thing.

Life with Hannibal was far from being a bad thing. They had their fake names and their semi-fake jobs, and they had each other to come home to at the end of the day.

Previous bloodshed and manipulations aside, a companionship like this with the level of understanding they had for each other was more than Will had ever dared to envision for himself.

Long bouts of loneliness in the past made Will cherish moments like now, when they were both quietly enjoying each other’s company on the couch, engrossed in their own reading materials (or at least Hannibal was).

They were happy, Will thought, a warm smile growing on his face, until he looked over at Hannibal and saw that the man was _scowling_ down at the ninth edition of _Kanski's Clinical Ophthalmology : A Systematic Approach._

“Want a change?” Will asked.

Hannibal glanced up, frown lines still evident. “Hmm?”

“My article on psychosomatic disorders and behavioral consistency,” Will said, offering Hannibal the loose leaves of paper in his hand. “I’m actually making an effort to sound engaging. Wanna have a go at it and tell me what you think?”

Hannibal took the papers, eyes roving somewhat warily over the messy cross-outs and cramped scribbles in the margins. “...Alright.”

Barely five minutes into Will’s article, Hannibal started massaging his temples.

Will tried not to feel offended.

He’d hoped his article would take Hannibal’s mind off whatever had him in such a sour mood, but if anything, the creases in his brow grew more and more pronounced as he read on.

After what seemed like an unnecessarily long time - were the introductory paragraphs really that hard to digest? - Hannibal turned the page. He read for a moment longer, then flipped through the rest of the papers as though to check just how much more he needed to suffer through.

“Maybe...tomorrow,” he said hesitantly, handing the papers back to Will. “I’m quite tired.”

“Okay,” Will said, unceremoniously abandoning the papers on the end table. “C’mon, then. I’m going to bed.”

“I...can’t. I have a number of journals to catch up with.”

Will desperately hoped he’d imagined the flicker of delight in Hannibal’s face at the prospect of solitude.

This made it the fifth night in a row Hannibal had declined to turn in together with him, each time with an equally half-baked excuse.

He fought down an inexplicable urge to scream.

“Right,” he said, forcing a smile on his face as he got up from the couch. “Goodnight, Hannibal.”

“Goodnight, Will.”

It wasn’t a big deal, Will told himself later, as he climbed into bed alone.

No couple did every single thing together forever, he reasoned, as he tugged angrily at the sheets and turned away from the emptiness in Hannibal’s side of the bed.

They both needed a healthy amount of their own personal space, he decided, as he punched his pillow into a more comfortable shape and shut his eyes.

Try as he might, though, no amount of rationalization could chase away the pining he felt swirling uneasily in his gut even as he drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Will woke with a soft gasp and the unpleasant aftertaste of a bad dream, annoyed at the abrupt ending to his sleep, but thankful that it hadn’t been one of his Nightmares™.

He turned and reached out automatically for Hannibal -

\- only to find that the space beside him lay cold and bare, unslept in.

He checked the time.

_4:27._

Anger and resentment sparked in Will as he glared at the empty space. Where the _fuck_ was Hannibal?

He had already stalked halfway across the room when it occurred to him with a pang that Hannibal might be...out.

Hunting.

Will wondered just how fucked up it was that his first reaction to that thought wasn’t a stab of horror, but instead an indignant, _‘Without me?’._

Still, he supposed he would much rather find out that Hannibal was murdering people behind his back, instead of cheating on him with them. (Again, the thought made him wonder exactly where he fell on the scale of fucked up psyches.)

As Will padded out of the bedroom, the doorway to the study immediately caught his eye, the sharp light that spilled out from the gap beneath the door a harsh contrast to the darkness that engulfed the rest of the house.

He moved towards it, a little cautiously, then paused as he stood right outside, straining his ears for any sound that might come from within.

He heard nothing.

“...Hannibal?” he whispered, pushing open the door and taking a few tentative steps inside, before the sight that met his eyes brought him to an abrupt halt.

Hannibal was sprawled across the armchair, clearly asleep, with his mouth slightly open and his head tilted at what must be an uncomfortable angle. On his lap was a medical journal, folded open and held in a loose grip.

What was peculiar, though, were the pair of black, angular frames balanced precariously on his nose, their presence making a stark difference to the man’s usual appearance.

Since when did Hannibal wear glasses?

“Hannibal?” Will whispered again, edging closer.

He was met only with soft, steady breathing.

Will reached out and slowly, gingerly, lifted the pair of glasses by its hinges. Hannibal didn’t give a stir as Will removed them carefully from his face.

Peering through the lenses curiously, Will found that they were reading glasses.

Prescription, because Hannibal obviously wouldn’t have settled for anything less.

With a surprisingly strong power, if the distorted images he saw through the glasses were anything to go by.

Huh.

The frames folded with an elegant _click._ Will held them in a lax fist, half-hidden.

“Hannibal.” Will gave a gentle shake to the man’s arm, and this time he jerked awake, looking around wildly for a moment before his gaze settled on Will.

“Will,” he sighed tiredly, running a hand over his face. “I fell asleep.”

“Yeah,” Will said with a chuckle. “C’mon, or your neck’ll hurt worse in the morning.”

With eyes that barely managed to stay open, Hannibal let himself be tugged up from the armchair and nudged to the bedroom, where he wasted no time in crawling under the covers and going right back to sleep.

Stashing the glasses safely away in his bedside drawer, Will got back into bed, significantly improved mood evidenced by the grin on his face.

They’d talk in the morning.

* * *

Will was sipping his coffee cheerfully at the counter when Hannibal padded into the kitchen with adorably sleep-tousled hair.

“Morning, sunshine,” Will greeted, whipping the food cover off a nicely garnished plate of pancakes with a flourish.

Hannibal regarded it with a happy smile. “You woke before me,” he said, leaning over to plant a kiss on Will’s cheek before taking his seat.

“Mm. Thought you’d like to sleep in for a bit longer.”

“Yes, I was quite...tired...last night.”

Will pretended not to notice the split-second flicker of uncertainty that passed over Hannibal’s face.

Breakfast went on pleasantly, with both men exchanging trivial remarks about groceries and fishing supplies. The moment Hannibal finished his breakfast, however, he excused himself, citing a ’mess that he must have left last night’ that he needed to tidy up.

Will listened from where he sat as the door to the study opened, followed by a lull where he imagined Hannibal was rummaging throughout the room, and then he heard the study door close shut again.

Hannibal reappeared in the kitchen moments later, eyes wandering across the room in what would’ve been disguised as a casual gaze if Will didn’t know any better.

“Looking for something?” he asked nonchalantly.

“I seem to have misplaced the journal I was reading last night,” Hannibal replied calmly. “ _Revue de Médecine Interne_ , Volume 37.”

“Oh.” Will shrugged. “Haven’t seen it.”

“I’m sure it will turn up,” Hannibal muttered, somewhat distractedly.

“Yeah.”

After a beat, Will moved the pair of glasses from where it had been sitting covertly behind the coffee maker.

“Thought you might have been looking for these instead.”

Though Hannibal’s expression remained carefully unchanged, Will knew him well enough to spot the way his entire body tensed as he stared down at the folded glasses, now sitting plainly on the countertop in full sight.

There was a long pause.

“Did you get new ones?” Hannibal asked, seemingly having to make a conscious effort to meet Will’s eyes.

Will shook his head, lips pursed. “They’re not mine.”

“How mysterious that they should turn up in our home, then. Where did you find these?”

“On your face,” Will replied innocently. “Last night. When I woke you in the study.”

Hannibal’s left eye gave the faintest twitch.

“What an odd dream to be having, Will.”

“You don’t remember getting them?” Will asked, rising to cross the short distance to Hannibal and making sure to inject the utmost concern in his voice. “Or wearing them last night while you were reading?”

A flush was slowly creeping up the man’s neck, and Will pressed a palm to the area.

“You’re feeling a little hot, Hannibal,” he said, not feeling offended in the slightest as the man jerked away from his touch. “Together with the memory lapses, it could be encephalitis, y’know. Better get that checked out early.”

“ _Fine,_ ” Hannibal said irritably as he moved around Will to snatch the glasses off the countertop. “They’re _mine_.”

“Oh,” Will said, finally letting a wide grin spread across his face. He leaned casually against the kitchen doorway with his arms crossed, blocking Hannibal from an easy exit. “So...when were you gonna tell me about them?”

“It is nothing of import,” Hannibal said through gritted teeth.

“Then why didn’t you tell me about them?”

Hannibal gave no response other than a terrifying glower.

“You’ve been staying up at night to read so I won’t see you wearing them,” Will guessed, taking a step closer. A tiny clench in Hannibal’s jaw told him that he was right.

“Looking at fancy menus and tiny print without them gives you a horrible headache.”

Hannibal tried intensifying his scowl, but Will wasn’t letting him off so easily.

“You bought that ugly lamp to help you read.”

He turned away from Will with a sharp exhale of annoyance.

“You can’t properly see what you’re cooking half the time because -”

“Al _right!_ ” Hannibal interjected angrily, whipping around to glower at Will again. “I. Need. Glasses. Are you satisfied, Will? Now if you’ve finished making _fun_ of me -”

“ _I_ wear glasses, you idiot, why would I make fun of you?” Will pointed out. At the sullen scowl, he caught Hannibal gently around the waist with his arms. “I just want to know why you thought you shouldn’t tell me.”

“It wasn’t worth mentioning,” Hannibal said stubbornly.

“Put them on,” Will coaxed.

“I - what?” Hannibal frowned. “I only really need to wear them when I read -”

“Put them on,” Will repeated, taking the glasses from Hannibal lightly and unfolding them. “Let me see you in them again.”

With a mistrustful glare, Hannibal lowered his head slightly to let him push the frames onto his face until they sat firmly on the bridge of his nose.

It didn’t take Will long to decide that he really, _really_ liked Hannibal in glasses. The shape and size of the frames had obviously been selected to accentuate his best features, adding a certain poise to his face. Under Will’s scrutinizing gaze, Hannibal self-consciously poked his glasses up a little higher with a finger and continued to glare at Will through them.

Will grinned.

“Cute.”

Hannibal’s face darkened.

“Distinguished,” Will corrected himself quickly. “They make you look really smart. And kind of hot.”

“I’m glad my newfound disability pleases you, Will,” Hannibal said, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

“All I’m saying is you look good in them,” Will said, chuckling. “Stop being so dramatic and just put them on when you need to, Hannibal, before you ruin your eyesight further.”

Hannibal huffed miserably in defeat. “I suppose I should.”

Will leaned in to press a kiss to Hannibal’s lips, grinning as he felt his cheek nudge against the bottom edge of the glasses.

A tiny smudge on the lens was visible when he pulled back, and Hannibal’s gaze honed in on it a little comically.

“Yeah, they’ll do that,” Will said a little apologetically.

Hannibal removed them and took a moment to wipe the lenses on the hem of his shirt before putting them back on, blinking as though he needed a while to adjust to the improved state of his vision.

After a few moments, he reached up again. Will caught his hand. “Just leave them,” Will said with a laugh. “Stop fidgeting with them and you’ll get used to it.”

Hannibal’s face settled into something that could only be called a petulant pout.

“Does it really not bother you at all?” he asked dejectedly.

“That you wear glasses now?”

Hannibal stayed quiet, sulking.

“Does it bother you when _I_ wear glasses?” Will asked, genuinely curious.

Hannibal scoffed dismissively. “That’s different.”

“Different how?”

“Myopia is a form of vision impairment caused by an elongated eyeball or a steeply-curved cornea resulting in a refractive error, the onset and progression of which occurs, in most cases, below the age of twenty,” Hannibal explained impatiently. “Presbyopia, on the other hand, is associated with...declining flexibility in the lens of the eye -“

“You mean age?”

Hannibal’s left eye gave a violent twitch.

“Hannibal, I already know you’re ol-”

The glare turned _murderous_.

“-der,” Will finished hurriedly. “Than me. It’s not - It’s never been a - I don’t care,” he said, quite perplexed that Hannibal would think otherwise.

Hannibal glanced away, face impassive.

“My eyesight’s probably going to be shit in a couple of years,” Will said consolingly, though privately he didn’t quite believe it would befall him so soon. “It happens,” he added with a shrug.

Hannibal gave a haughty huff. “My eyesight used to be _perfect_ ,” he said indignantly. “I could see even in the dark. I could observe every minuscule microexpression. I could discern the very fibers of marbled meat, the swirl of every bristle in a brushstroke, the -”

“Like I said,” Will interrupted, gently turning Hannibal back to face him with a comforting thumb tracing his jawline. “It happens.”

“But where does it _end_ ,” Hannibal said insistently, voice rising in agitation. “What will become of us when my hands tremble, and my ears betray me, and my mind preserves memories no better than a sieve can guard water -”

“Then I’ll be there to remind you,” Will interrupted again, more softly this time. “That you age like a fine wine, and that I love you.” He pressed another kiss to Hannibal’s lips. “Okay?”

“Will,” Hannibal breathed, looking a little sorrowful.

“If you make it to eighty, I’ll let you pick all my aftershaves for the rest of our lives,” Will promised, grinning weakly.

The small smile that Hannibal returned did little to disguise the hint of melancholy behind it.

“And if I don’t?”

Will looked at Hannibal, taking in all of the creases and lines around his eyes and lips, before enveloping him in a tender embrace.

“If there is no afterlife, then it won’t matter,” Will murmured into Hannibal’s shoulder. “If there is, then I’ll...see you in Hell, or something, if it wants us. And you can pick my aftershave there.”

He felt Hannibal’s breath close to his ear as the man let out a soft chuckle, finally relaxing in Will’s arms.

“I’ll remember what you promised me today, Will.”

“Sure...if you don’t go all senile on me first, old man.”

Will dodged out of the way just in time to avoid a playful jab aimed at his shoulder, though he couldn’t escape the hand that shot out next to seize hold of his arm. The struggle that ensued quickly devolved into a tussle to see who could pin the other to the wall first. Amid some merciless tickling and bouts of childlike laughter, Will finally had to concede that age hadn’t yet caught up to Hannibal in terms of upper body strength, and would he perhaps like to take this to the bedroom to disprove it in other areas as well.

Every relationship came with its own ups and downs, but as they kissed and nipped and stumbled their way out of the kitchen, Will was thankful that, right now, things were good.

* * *


End file.
